Nick Carter crept from tree to tree of the large elms that lined the avenue, and not a word uttered by the rascals escaped him.
He knew what they contemplated—the robbery of Tom Smith’s safe.
The two took a car, and Nick Carter boarded the next one.
“You are out rather late, mother,” said Elmer Greer to an old Irish woman, who presided over an apple stand on the corner of Broad and Wall Streets.
“I’m not your mother, I’m a decent woman,” replied the fruit vendor.
“You will get your death out in this cold.”
“Begorra, then, I’ll give you an invitation, now, to me funeral.”
“How much is your stock worth?” Greer asked, ramming his hands in his pockets and rattling some silver.
The old woman was all smiles as she bustled around the stand and took an account of stock.
“I suppose you don’t want to buy the stand itself?”